


Raising Hell

by Scree_Kat



Series: Ineffable Parenthood [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Hermione Granger, Beelzebub did not sign on for this, Demon!Dad Crowley (Good Omens), Gen, Hastur and the terrible horrible no good very bad day, Here be cussing, Hermione is a little shit, Ineffable Family, Non graphic psychological torture of demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-10-26 17:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20746322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scree_Kat/pseuds/Scree_Kat
Summary: When Hastur realises that Crowley has adopted a mortal, it’s the perfect chance for some well-earned payback.Hermione has other ideas.





	1. Demonic Serendipity

**Author's Note:**

> This series is not published in chronological order. If this is something that'll irritate you, consider this your sign from the universe to run. Run like Hastur is drunk and lonely and trying to chat you up.

Hastur had been prowling London for hours, growing ever more frustrated as he looked for souls to tempt. Once upon a time, you couldn’t take two steps in London proper without being overrun with mortals ready to sell their soul for even the slightest hint of success. You couldn’t swing a bloody cat without smacking it into the face of a potential saint more than willing to hock their soul for something suitably shiny (or vengeance upon inattentive cat swingers). Though the Dukes would never say it amongst the rabble, and could barely bring themselves to acknowledge it in the relative safety of their weekly meetings, life beyond Crowley was far more difficult than they’d ever anticipated. For all their belief that the uppity prick was doing absolutely nothing for the cause, without his niggling little irritations in the world, getting people to sign over their souls was taking a lot more effort for a lot less success. Bastard. Even when fucking up royally, the little shit seemed unable to actually, truly fail.

Wandering the streets of London, the change was clear. Deliberately knocking into passersby drew a hurried, earnest apology before each mortal’s attention flickered back to their phone, with barely a hint of irritation to draw upon. Crowley’s efforts, though generally more cringe worthy than deserving of praise, had actually, inexplicably, made it easier for the rest of them to gather souls. Who’d have thought gluing coins to the sidewalk or moving a bit of road would have such an impact? The toad upon his head croaked forlornly in an odd sort of solidarity. It really didn’t help.

Humans were odd creatures, contradictory as Heaven and just as prone to ridiculousness. How the Heaven had Crowley managed to figure out their weaknesses, let alone exploit them so effortlessly? And why the Heaven weren’t any of the other demons coming close to figuring it out for themselves? Though his plans seemed laughably simple, no one had managed anything close to Crowley's successes. Eighteen different demons tried downing phone networks and barely got them offline for a minute. Only two had managed it during peak usage. Three tried to change road developments, and somehow made them more efficient and user-friendly. One had somehow created an angelic rune that prevented traffic jams and kept motorists calm! Eight had glued their fingers to the pavement trying to place coins, and had to be rescued by mortals. One enthusiastic lower level grunt tried to improve upon Crowley's selfie plan, and ended up accidentally starting a successful, global body positive movement. How was it possible that the greatest failure of a demon was the only one capable of tempting modern humans?

As though thinking of the idiot brought him out of Tadfield, there was a flash of vibrant red hair, and the unmistakable serpentine form of Anthony J. Crowley parted the sea of mortals effortlessly, and without even a twitch of smugness at his ability to lord it over them. His uppity, ridiculous voice rang out clearly through the crowd, an odd blend of fondness and amusement that was utterly out of place coming from a demon. ‘Don’t wander too far, Miss Hiss.’

The only response was a laugh, young and female and utterly, utterly human. Hastur paused, hiding himself from view before the mortal child ran past, a riotous halo of hair shifting as snakelike as the demon she was playfully escaping. Like the demon, she favoured dark jeans and shirts, and ink black sunglasses shielded her eyes from view. There was the slightest hint of wrongness to her, from too much time spent with a demon, no doubt. Crowley followed her quickly enough to keep her in sight despite the crowd, pausing and glancing warily around as though he could sense some intangible potential threat before her excited shout of 'Dad' distracted him. Hastur grinned as Crowley hurried off. It wasn’t a pleasant grin, at least, not if you were the reason for its existence. But Hastur rather thought it a wonderful sort of smile, his favourite of all the malicious, dairy curdling smiles in his repertoire. Satan be praised for showing him the way!

They couldn’t touch Crowley. God alone knew how to kill the demonic freak, and They certainly weren’t telling. But that didn’t mean Hell couldn’t take the pound of flesh owed in other, nastier ways. A shiver of excitement crawled along his spine and neck (nearly dislodging the toad), and Hastur began cheerfully following his quarry.

His nose wrinkled like he'd smelt something particularly sweet to see the girl hold Crowley's hand as they crossed the street- not even jay-walking. He fought the urge to vomit as the pair wandered through a bookstore, talking about which books the bloody angel might like to be gifted, and gathering together their own collections of stories. Not a single treatise on serial killers or forensics among them! It was a bloody outrage!

Every so often, Crowley would pause, looking around warily before the girl's voice distracted him. And sure, he could easily keep his distance, avoid Crowley's instinctive unease and let it be a surprise. But this? This was better. All these perfect opportunities for the other demon to sense the threat and respond, and he was so out of practice, so easily distracted by a fucking _mortal_, that he was oblivious. 

Crowley's guilt would be agony. Hastur couldn't wait.

Finally, _finally_ the pair wandered into Saint James' Park, finding a quiet, shady corner before Crowley waved his hand theatrically and conjured them a picnic basket and blanket. The mortal cheered and applauded. It was a disgustingly adorable scene, nauseating in the extreme. Hastur scowled, watching Crowley settle the girl onto the blanket before carefully sitting beside her, dragging the basket beside him before drawing out and opening container after container of food. Judging from the excited sounds from the mortal, he'd packed nothing but her favourite foods. They were talking, just about to start eating, and Crowley looked happier than Hastur had known demons capable of. 

A click of Hastur's fingers, and Crowley watched the mortal girl vanish in a burst of hellfire, his panic finer than any Hastur had encountered before.


	2. Welcome To Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This... is not going to plan.

Hastur had expected screaming, frankly.

Maybe some vomit, or soiled jeans. Definitely some hysterical sobbing and panic and the inevitable begging and pleading for mercy. That’s what humans _did_ when they were unexpectedly dragged to Hell. Especially the young ones. He’d expected the usual childish tactic of grabbing onto the slick, mildewed walls, desperately trying to hold tight to avoid being dragged around the place. That usually ended in more vomit, as they inevitably caught a whiff of the mouldy gunk staining their hands and realised there was no way to clean the mess away. Even demons got a bit queasy around that kind of stench.

Instead of terror, the girl looked around the dank, desolate hellscape with a single eyebrow rising almost mockingly above the confines of her glasses. Her mouth contorted into an emotion he couldn’t identify, and yet the only sound she uttered was a quiet, emotionless ‘huh’. He grabbed her shoulder and started pushing her towards the nearest interrogation room. She didn’t even have the courtesy to stumble.

A brutal shove that had sent countless other humans sprawling, and she was staggering into the room, the door slamming closed as she righted herself. Another shove, this time towards a metal seat too cold and misshapen to ever be comfortable, and while she uttered another huff of derision, she calmly moved to obey the unspoken command. The chairs, like the majority of Hell’s facilities, were created with the sole intention of torturing those forced to use them. There was no way to sit comfortably, or to avoid a pain in the ass, hip, and legs that tended to last for weeks after. Though the chairs had been in existence for thousands of years, Hastur had only ever seen Crowley able to contort enough to be comfortable in them, his serpentine form adapting while those around him suffered. The humans were crying within minutes, with demons lasting barely any longer.

The girl squirmed in the chair for barely a moment before falling into a slouching pose better suited to the Serpent of Eden than a human girl, her legs kicked up on the table. As she calmly crossed her ankles, her sturdy black boots caught rainbows in the light in a way that looked woefully out of place on the otherwise dour seeming girl. If her hair was red, and a little less murderous, she could pass as Crowley’s child. It chilled him, that thought. It was the sort of thought to get other thoughts into motion, and the amazing, fool-proof plan to pay Crowley back for his betrayal started feeling foolish, possibly even somewhat suicidal. They didn’t know how to kill Crowley, after all. He could wield a weapon fatal to them with barely a grimace of discomfort. And Hell - Hastur - had just stolen from the unkillable demon, making it utterly obvious that it was Hell when at the very least he should have made it look like Heaven was responsible. He’d kill a lesser demon for that sort of idiocy.

He could feel her watching him, wondered what panic was visible to her before shaking the thought off as stupid. She was a child, a mortal one at that. They were barely more intelligent than the flies buzzing around Lord Beelzebub’s fat head. The girl knew nothing. Though he couldn’t see her eyes, he had the distinct sense that the girl was staring at him in amusement rather than fear. And that? That wouldn’t do.

‘Do you know who I am?’

A friendly smile firmly in place, she crossed her arms over her chest, tilted her head and seemed to size him up behind those blessed ridiculous glasses. ‘You seem like a douche bag, so I’m gonna guess… Gabriel?’ He growled, low and furious, and the girl laughed. Not even a fake, desperately trying to hide her terror kind of a laugh, but actual amusement as he mirrored her crossed arms defensively. Like he could ever be confused with that banal twat. ‘Michael, then?’

A demonic arm snaked out to gesture angrily at the mouldy walls and the scent of decay.‘Does this look like Heaven to you?!?’

A beatific smile with just a hint of scorn behind its sweetness, and she shrugged.‘Never been one to contemplate the afterlife, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t know the appropriate stink of angels.’

‘I am Hastur, Duke of Hell, and you will obey me.’

‘Oooh, whaddaya gonna do if I don’t, Kermit? Get Miss Piggy in here to kick my ass?’

He paused, utterly disoriented by the turn in conversation. Was she confused? So scared she’d missed him telling her his name? He growled out another ‘I am Hastur, Duke of Hell’ before her smirk told him she’d heard it perfectly well the first time. The toad above him croaked in a way that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

He wanted to burn the smug smile off her blessed face with hellfire, wanted to snap her fool neck. He was a Duke of Hell, bless it, not some run of the mill angel to be terrorised into submission! His hands curled into fists before he remembered that the plan would work far less effectively with a corpse as a bargaining tool. He closed his eyes. Counted to ten, then twenty, thirty, forty. As calm as possible, he opened his eyes to try again. Her amused smile did not help. He pushed on, regardless.

‘Who are you to Crowley?’

‘To who?’ He stared her down, but she said nothing, merely looking at him in an earnest kind of confusion out of place with her previous confidence. Was she tricking him again? Or was she genuinely confused? Why in Heaven were humans so blessed complicated?!

‘_Crowley_! The Serpent of Eden! The red haired bastard you were with!’ Yes, he was flailing his arms, and probably looked more unhinged than in control of a simple conversation. No, he couldn't stop it if he tried. Her confusion faded, a wide smile breaking over her features like a particularly repugnant sunrise.

‘Oh, you mean Anthony! He’s my drama instructor. I’m hoping to land a Broadway gig. I was thinking Hamilton, maybe. What do you think? Could I pull off Lafayette’s role?’ He was unsure what happened next, only that the girl launched into rapid fire speech about guns and bloodstains and coats. Baffled, and more intimidated than he’d care to admit, he stormed from the room.

Lord Beezlebub would know what to do, surely.


	3. The Tadfield Hellraiders League

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's never a good idea to steal a child whose family and friends include an angel, a demon, a wizard, a witch, an Antichrist and a very angry girl who doesn't hold to this 'stealing young girls' rubbish. 
> 
> Someone should have sent Hell a memo.

He had been laughing. He had been _happy_. And now, now he was staring at a smouldering patch of blanket, mouth hanging open in surprise as his brain struggled to comprehend what had just happened.

And then the anger came.

Crowley, it must be said, was not a particularly _good_ demon. Or, perhaps that was generally the problem. He was, much as he pretended otherwise, kind. He was generally far nearer the _nice_ end of the spectrum than the _wicked_ one. But despite the kindness he tried and failed to keep hidden from the world, he was still a demon, just as capable of rage and vengeance and toe curling malice as his demonic peers. It just took him a little longer to get there. A hiss, the sort to make humans and animals alike instinctively run away (he was utterly unaware of the exodus occurring around him), the sort filled with insults and blood curdling vows of retribution, tore from his throat as he watched embers and ash dance in the light breeze and tried to ignore memories of a bookshop in flames, and the realisation that his angel was gone.

Hermione was gone.

No.

Hermione had been _taken_. Hell had taken Hermione.

For a moment, his mind faltered at the idea, refusing to believe Hell was fool enough to blunder into an attack against an enemy they’d declared a shaky sort of a truce with. But, no. Hell was more than foolish enough to wander stupidly into trouble, especially if they thought it would give them some sort of advantage against him. Shaking his head as though it could somehow switch his brain back into functionality, he stood, vanishing the remnants of the picnic before transporting himself back to Tadfield. Another thought, and the Bentley was settled in place in the garage. He strode into the house, bellowing for Aziraphale and barely noticing the Them and Anathema sitting in the living room with his angel. Aziraphale was staring at him in confusion that was quickly turning to worry, his gaze focused on Crowley’s hands. It took far too long for Crowley to realise they were shaking violently. He dug his nails into his palms until the shaking stopped, oblivious to Aziraphale’s mounting panic to see drops of blood falling to the carpet.

‘They took her.’

‘Who?’

‘Hell. Hell took Hermione.’

Aziraphale was there in a moment, hugging him tightly and whispering the sort of comforts that probably sounded good but didn’t make him feel even a tiny bit better, all things considered. Because he’d _known_ something wasn’t right. He’d felt the uncomfortable buzz of instinct ebbing and fading. He’d felt it enough over the years that he should have known they were being followed. He’d bloody well known there was something happening, and he was so stupidly happy to be spending time clothes shopping with Hermione that he hadn’t even given the instinctive unease the attention it deserved. And now his baby girl was in Hell, the one place he couldn’t safely go. Oh, he’d go, there was no doubt about it. He’d go, and he’d do all he could to remind Satan himself that certain lines should never, ever be crossed. It was the safely leaving part that was the problem.

Pepper’s voice, strong and unconcerned, filled the near silence, loud as a clap and just as jarring. ‘You know she made Mister Harris cry last week? He was Special Forces, taught to withstand torture, escaped some secret gulag in the middle of nowhere and swam home, if you believe Mrs Baker. And Hermione made him cry and need to go on stress leave when he mispronounced a word. Five pound says she breaks them.’

Adam snorted. ‘They’ll probably send her back just to get a moment’s peace.’ Crowley fought the urge to smile. They had a point, really. His little hellion was the sweetest, most adorable girl to ever draw breath. But her cuteness tended to be lost beneath an overwhelming intellect and inability to tolerate idiots.

Hell, it had to be said, was full of idiots.

‘Agnes left me a list of spells I’ve always wanted to try. They’re a bit more gruesome than I usually work with, but it could be fun.’

‘I’ve got an electrified truncheon in my bag,’ Pepper smiled (Crowley fought the urge to laugh at the idea of Pepper smacking Beelzebub in the stupid buzzy face with a stupid buzzy stick). Adam nodded, not needing to say much of anything about why he’d be going, too. Harry, who’d only just shaken himself free of the shock of his sister’s abduction, smiled the sort of wicked smile that had terrified far too many of his peers. ‘I’m coming with you. Can’t let Mione have all the fun.’ Adam grinned. Brian and Wensleydale shook their heads, sharing worried glances as subtly as two incredibly unsubtle people could manage.

Aziraphale patted Crowley’s shoulder, nodding to himself as though he’d decided upon something important. ‘That settles it. We’re going and getting our daughter back before she destroys Hell entirely.’ He shot a knowing look to Brian and Wensleydale. ‘We’ll need someone to stay behind, of course. Just in case. Boys, I know you’d love to come with us, but just this once, can I ask you to stay here and keep watch?’ They nodded far too quickly to seem natural, and Pepper rolled her eyes.

‘Alright. Grab what you need, and let’s go.’


	4. Psychological Trauma for Dummies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for a meet and greet with the citizens of Hell.

‘I am busy.’ Busy, when said by a demon with a gigantic fly attached to their head, sounds a lot like buzzy, which has a habit of amusing the younger demons and seeing them rather quickly disabused of any notions of long-term survival. Hastur knows better than to laugh, smile, or acknowledge the absurdity of being bossed around by somebody with a fly for a hat. He bows his head, nods in acknowledgement that the being sprawled upon a throne, flicking idly through a magazine, is incredibly busy and far too busy to be bothered with such trivialities as an unbreakable human prisoner. ‘If you cannot break them, send the rest in. Break them through a thousand cuts instead of the one.’

_Right_. Hastur was pretty certain that wasn’t going to work, but knowing better than to say so out loud, he bowed respectfully, muttering a hasty ‘Thank you for your counsel, Lord Beelzebub,’ and went to round up a gaggle of the closest demons to the throne room. He had the feeling he would need to gather more once this group had started their work. It wouldn’t do to tell them the real reason why twelve demons had been gathered into a small, dimly lit room to stare in confusion at a pre-teen who looked to be having a nap, and he cursed himself for an angel to have not thought up a suitable justification before he'd gathered himself an audience. _Fuck_. Demon hierarchies were treacherous, constantly changing things, and even as a confirmed Duke of Hell, admitting to an inability to so much as mildly irritate the tiny little mortal was about as wise an idea as bouncing scrunched up balls of paper at Beelzebub’s fly crown.

‘Lord Beelzebub has tasked me with a great and ignoble task, fellow demons.’ Yes, that sounded important, and impressive, enough, and the demons began to mutter between themselves as to the potential nature of great and ignoble tasks. Now, to figure out an _actual_ task before the silence dragged on suspiciously. Already, one of the younger demons had raised an eyebrow, staring him down with a look that all but screamed disbelief. He made a mental note to feed them to a hellhound when no one was watching. ‘Today, I am tasked with finding worthy candidates to become a Duke of Hell.’ That shut them up, at least. And given he was entirely positive the brat wouldn’t break anytime soon, it was an announcement with almost no chance of him having to actually follow through, thank Satan.

‘What do we need to do?’

‘This girl possesses information of value to Lord Beelzebub. You cannot kill her, or cause lasting physical harm, but you will break her. The first to make her cry will be granted the opportunity to undertake the Trials, and potentially become a Duke. Line up, single file.’ (Calling them 'the Trials' sounded terrifying and ominous, which was quite deliberate as lesser demons had no idea what was actually involved in becoming a Duke. Given that the process was Beelzebub making them sit around talking so Satan's second in command could decide whether a demon would be tolerably or intolerably irritating, an ominous sounding name was considered vital to morale.) A rush of motion, and the haunting refrain of casual violence left a smile upon Hastur’s face. Three demons, now bloodied, slunk to the end of the line, pouting towards the biggest, meanest looking demon in the group. His parents, clearly hoping to inspire said bigness and meanness from birth, had named their son Gertrude, if the "hello, my name is" badge on their chest was anything to go by.

‘How long do we have?’ Gertrude’s growl was barely decipherable as a sentence, but Hastur tried (and failed) to look like he hadn’t had to struggle through an quick internal translation.

'Gertrude, is it?'

The demon looked confused, apparently unaware of the name badge he was wearing. Shaking his head, he awkwardly offered a hand that Hastur pointedly refused to shake before giving his actual name, the verbal equivalent of eight drunken keyboard smashes in a row. Hastur decided to rename them Gertrude, anyway, if only because it was shorter to say than "keyboard smash".

‘Take as long as you want.’ Conjuring a comfortable chair in front of the one-way mirror, Hastur settled in to enjoy the show. Gertrude stormed into the brat’s cell with all the menace of a murderous clown, the slam of the door against the wall loud enough to rouse the girl (she didn’t even flinch, the little shit). The all-consuming sense of menace was rather lost, however, when Gertrude had to turn around, wrench the door out of the wall, and close it neatly behind him. The girl stretched, no trace of concern visible as she evaluated the new addition to her cell. In fact, she smiled. Hastur, even with a thick piece of reinforced glass between them and the certainty that she did not- could not- know he was there, felt a surge of primal fear at the sight, the sort he hadn't felt since the Fall. This wasn’t the sarcastically sweet smile she’d bestowed upon him. This was a predatory smile, and a damned good one at that. Hastur felt a small swell of pity for the demons behind him.

‘I am (another keyboard smash, one that sounded completely different to the one Hastur had been given) of Hell, and I will make you rue the day you-’

‘I’m sorry, but I don't know how to pronounce that, so I'm gonna call you Schnoodle. Look, I get it, you’re in Hell, there’s an aesthetic to work towards, but if you’re here to take my lunch order, there’s no need for all that nonsense. I’ll have some fresh fruit- mango would be good, but I’ll accept strawberries if not, a bottle of water, and a ham and cheese toastie, thanks.’ The girl waved her hand in a clear gesture of dismissal, and Gertrude snatched it by the wrist, gripping tightly enough that any normal, self-respecting human would be screaming and thrashing about. The girl eyed the demon’s hand.

‘Let me go, Schnoodle.’ There was no panic, no pain, in the voice. The girl could be talking about the weather, or a particularly dull book for all the emotion on display.

‘You do not give the orders here, mortal.’ Apparently, she did. The girl didn’t move, not an inch, and yet the hand tightly gripping to her was wrenched away, violently enough that it smacked Gertrude hard in the face. The demon growled.

An eyebrow rose above the girl’s glasses. ‘Oh, shut up and bring my my lunch.’ Gertrude lunged forwards, hands reaching towards the girl’s neck threateningly. The girl didn’t bother moving, or trying to dodge. With an utterly non-demonic squeak of surprise, the demon was launched backwards, impacting the wall so hard he left a large crack and a dent in the cement. After sliding down the wall and falling into a messy heap, Gertrude didn’t move.

Less than two minutes after Gertrude had stormed the interrogation room, Hastur was sighing out a half-hearted ‘next’, and sending two other demons in momentarily to drag Gertrude out. The remaining demons looked far less excited to try their luck.

*******

The second demon decided menacing silence was the ticket. They stood, dark robes slick with drying blood, face concealed but obviously staring down the little shit coldly.

The girl stared back, unblinking. A small smile danced across her lips, growing more pronounced as the seconds ticked away.

A whole minute passed in utter silence as the pair stared each other down. For a moment, Hastur could pretend that the demon was gaining the upper hand. And then they started shaking. Shivering, really. First their hands, then arms, and then every part of them was shaking violently. The girl sat, unmoving and unblinking.

Two and a half minutes after arriving, the demon muttered a quiet ‘fuck’, bowed their head, and hurried out the door.

The girl laughed.  
  
The remaining demons murmured nervously.

*******

As a rule, Hastur didn’t remember the names of demons who weren’t Dukes. For a start, there was a lot of lesser demons running about, and remembering one name set a dangerous precedent that could (and had) led to riots. But mostly, he didn’t bother learning names because the newer demons seemed determined to stand apart through the ridiculousness of name rather than any actual capacity for wickedness.

The third demon, dressed all in black and giving the distinct impression they had hastily blu-tacked whatever sharp objects they could find to their leather jacket and scalp, looked like their menacing scowl was practised in the mirror rather than on actual living creatures. They threw open the door far less dramatically than Gertrude had, but still needed to pause and close it behind them. Not a great start, that. Spinning back to view the mortal, the demon’s voice (on the ‘three pack a day habit’ end of the gravelly voice spectrum) bellowed ‘I am Zin the Destroyer of worlds-’

‘Oh? What worlds have you destroyed?’ The demon hesitated. Had… had nobody ever even asked them that before? Really? Not a single, solitary demon ever thought _hey, that’s a bit of a brag there, let’s verify it_ even once in the long, dull existence of the mighty Zin?

‘Err… too many to give voice to, mortal.’

‘Name three then. I’ll wait.’ The girl crossed her arms, and even with her glasses still firmly in place, it was clear she was unimpressed.

‘Ummm… Atlantis?’

‘It’s back now, meaning it clearly wasn’t actually _destroyed_. It doesn’t count. Try again.’ The demon fumbled, opening and closing its mouth as it tried to find something, anything, to say. The human smiled, a near perfect imitation of a sympathetic expression. ‘Do you know what I think, Zin?’

‘What?’ The demon, wisely, sounded bloody terrified of the answer.

‘I think that you haven’t actually destroyed anything ever in your life. You strike me as a creative type, not a destructive one. But nobody values creativity here, do they? I mean, look at this place! Nobody takes pride in anything here. Demons like you, you’re hard done by, aren’t you?’ Zin, seemingly oblivious to the action, nodded along. ‘You could make Hell great, we both know it. But how can you get ahead when they favour mediocrity the way they do? I mean, come on now, Crowley was a visionary, he did amazing work, and where did it get him? Nowhere. His every worthy achievement shrugged off because the wanker-Dukes or whatever are too stupid to even notice greatness in their midst.’ She shook her head, as though personally offended on Zin’s behalf.

Within three minutes, she'd half convinced a lesser demon to challenge Beelzebub, possibly even Satan, for control of Hell. Hastur dragged the demon out of the room himself.

*******

By the time the twelfth demon scurried into the room, even Hastur was getting a little bored of the unmitigated carnage. Seven demons were sobbing hysterically, so broken that he’d had to go into the corridor to demand a random passer by fetch every half-assed therapist serving time in hellfire #8, and bring them in for a quick spot of crisis counselling. The unlucky demon they’d been walking with was tasked with rounding up the next group of volunteers. On top of the abundance of emotionally eviscerated demons, three were unconscious, beaten and bloodied without the girl even raising a finger, and one was officially on a watch list for potential rebellion-raisers.

This final demon, though, had promise. Smart enough to do away with the threats and intimidation, they’d glamoured themselves to look, and sound, like a child similar in age to the one sprawled almost sarcastically in the torture chair.

‘He-hello,’ the demon stuttered, raising a hand shyly in greeting. The human sat up straighter, eyebrow quirking in disbelief. But when she offered her own greeting, her voice was kind, even friendly.

‘I’m Cara. What’s your name?’

‘Hermione.’ Huh. The demon had already outdone all those who came before, Hastur included. ‘Why are there humans wandering around Hell, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Oh, I’m one of the servants here. They said you wanted some lunch?’ The girl rattled off her order, and with a snap of demonic fingers, it appeared. The mortal took a delighted bite of her toasted sandwich before complementing the demon politely.

‘So… what? You run around feeding the prisoners?’

‘If asked, yes. I do whatever my masters order me to.’ Hermione shook her head, looking unimpressed.

‘They gave you magic, Cara. Why not run?’

‘Where would I go?’ The demon’s voice was so warbly with confusion that even Hastur struggled to remember it wasn’t a scared human child talking.

‘Earth? Back to your family, maybe? Surely humanity is way better than this…’ 

The demon currently known as Cara looked hurt, arms crossing defensively over a weak little chest, and a pout darkening their otherwise horrifically adorable features.‘You’re only asking so I’ll help you escape!’

‘I am not!’ If Cara sounded offended, it was nothing compared to the all-out disgust of Hermione. ‘I was trying to be nice! See if I bother trying to help you again.’ She took an irritated sip of water, staring Cara down the entire time.

Hastur had never seen someone look so menacing while daintily spearing pieces of mango onto a fork, but blessed if Hermione couldn’t manage it.

The demon seemed to curl in on itself, looking down and avoiding the stern glare. ‘I’m sorry! Everyone only ever asks me that when they want me to rescue them, but I can’t! I don’t know how to. I only know how to make food and clean things, not how to leave. Please don’t be mad!’ The words tumbled together, fast and desperate, and Hermione’s scowl softened.

‘I forgive you. So… If I asked you to make this bottle refill whenever it was empty, could you?’

‘Yes.’ As if to prove the point, the bottle refilled.

‘Can you make specific things? Like… brands of food or drink?’

‘Easy.’

‘Oooh, can you make a pumpkin spice frappacinno with whipped cream?’ Hermione was beaming at her new friend, laughing and congratulating Cara as a large, creamy drink appeared in front of her, straw almost lost in the mountains of whipped cream. ‘Will it refill, too?’ Another nod, and a small, innocent sounding laugh. ‘You’re amazing!’

Cara looked away. ‘They said… they said if you don’t talk, they’re going to torture you. They’ll hurt you, Hermione! Can’t you just tell them whatever it is they want you to tell them?’ The light from the overhead bulb seemed to catch Cara’s eyes, highlighting the tears glimmering there. Hermione sighed, taking a long slurp of her drink before replying.

‘I don’t actually know what they want to know, though? One asked about Crowley, ages ago, but it’s like I said. He’s my drama teacher, I don’t know anything about him.’

‘Oh.’

‘So how about this, Cara: you go back into the waiting room out there, undo the glamour you’ve got going on and stop pretending to be a kid, and get them to write a list of goddamn questions for me? Sound fun?’

Cara hurried away. Hermione thanked her for her lunch before she vanished.

Hastur sent unlucky number 13 into the lion’s den.


	5. An Unusual Kind of Meet-Cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't that Hell was too quiet. Quite the opposite, actually.

Hell wasn’t known for its tranquillity. Even with the inevitable scraping and mutterings of demons nearby, there was always a subtle backdrop of human misery to savour, a cacophony of screams and wails and devastation to keep any awkward silences from taking hold.

This was different. Oh, sure, there was sobbing and wailing aplenty. But it sounded wrong. Louder. _Closer_.

Reluctantly, Beelzebub lowered their magazine, and glanced around the strangely empty room. No demons lingered, awaiting orders or commands. Nobody scurried in the shadows, or raised a complaint. There wasn’t any blustering or ranting or melodrama- not even a single hint of grumbling within the room beyond the buzzing of a rather irritating crown.

Clearly, something was wrong.

The buzzing in and on their head grew in agitation at the realisation, and Beelzebub huffed out a sigh, wondering what in the sphincter of Heaven had captured the attention of so many idiots all at once. Surely Duke Valefar hadn’t smuggled another laser pointer into Hell, not after last time? But, no. If she had, the sounds would be far more violent and cheerful than the wailing outside. This wasn’t the _good_ kind of wrong. This was actually something problematic.

Beelzebub didn’t like to boast (oh, who are they kidding, they _loved_ to boast, just not internally where no one else could be made to feel bad about their greatness), but you don’t get to be the Unrighteous Hand of Satan, and Lord of Hell through stupidity and dumb luck. Bouts of idiocy might be acceptable in the lesser ranks, but a Lord was only given power once proven cunning enough to wield it. As such, Beelzebub did not slam open the door, or shout a demand for information or a summoning of guards as they walked. The role of cannon fodder was for other, lesser demons, after all. Instead, Beelzebub quietly opened the door, just a little, just enough to look around for threats without giving away their location. What they found was utter bloody chaos.

Demons were huddled in the walkways or staggering drunkenly about, wailing and sobbing as- _were those mortals_?- tried desperately to calm them, using phrases like ‘trauma’ and ‘safe space’ and the sort of jargon that reminded Beelzebub of those shoddy self-help gurus Crowley had been so pleased about. For a moment, Beelzebub stared. No fewer than four Dukes were in hysterics, one pounding their (already ugly) head against the wall repeatedly, adding a dash of blood to the slick mouldy wreck of a hallway. That was… unexpected.

Noting the almighty lack of an attacking army, Beelzebub felt safe enough to stride from their throne room, sparing the Dukes a scowl known to cause demons to faint dead away in fright. The Dukes barely noticed. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Valefar, at least, was not so far gone that she couldn’t recognise the voice of their leader, pausing in her rocking and hair pulling to point silently at the door to an interrogation room. When it became clear that no one in the hall would be giving useful answers anytime soon, Beelzebub released a soft buzz of irritation, and hurried off to investigate.

Of course, being rather more sensible than the average demon, they did not stride purposefully into the interrogation room itself, choosing the safer option of the viewing room next door. While they hadn’t expected much, a room full of demons in various stages of stage fright certainly wasn’t on the list. Pointedly ignoring the rabble as he stared into the interrogation room, and utterly oblivious to the new arrival, sat Hastur.

‘What is going on?’ It was satisfying to watch the Duke flinch himself upright, spinning around and dropping into a deep bow that was mirrored by the other demons. Hastur was shaking a little as he rose, meeting Beelzebub’s eyes for barely a moment before directing his gaze to the floor. _Clever boy._

‘Lord Beelzebub, you honour us with your presence. I am undertaking your given orders, my Lord.’ _Huh._

‘I do not recall asking you to traumatise our forces, Hastur.’

‘You told me to send our forces in to interrogate the mortal, my Lord. I have done so, and continue to do so.’ _All this for a mortal?_ Beelzebub strode forward, settling into the chair Hastur had leapt from and savouring his flare of irritation at the realisation that he would need to stand.

‘Send the next demon in, Hastur.’

The demon in question, a particularly young one, tried to put on a brave face as they walked into the room, but the violent shaking rather gave them away. The mortal, its hair a dark halo that seemed to spark and crackle with electricity, was lying on the table, arms behind its head, its legs crossed. That it was clearly baring all physical vulnerabilities was as insulting as it was intriguing. Was the mortal truly so unafraid of the hosts of Hell?

‘Hi,’ the human drawled, turning its head minutely to look at the demon. The demon shrieked and fled the room.

Perhaps the human had a point.


	6. Another One Bites The Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell might be running out of demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! I managed to get swamped at work, and then sick.

Hermione smiled, watching the latest demon scurry in. They’d stopped giving their names ages ago, right around the time she convinced Sminich the Impaler that now he’d given her something so powerful, she would summon him weekly for the rest of her life to make him watch badly dubbed rip-offs of Disney movies with her.

Like she’d watch that crap or waste the popcorn.

Okay, so she was planning to do it once. Just once, to make a point. But beyond that? No way in hel-heav-_somewhere._

Her smile never faltered, her gaze staying on the demon as she stretched, cracking her neck and contorting herself until the ache of sitting for so long passed. Even throwing enough cushioning charms at the chair to make it feel downright decadent, there was only so long she'd be able to sit in an actual torture chair without squirming uncomfortably. The blustering, she could do all day, but unlike her father, she wasn't part snake (or whatever on earth he was that made his eyes gleam yellow the way they did), and sprawling to avoid the most painful bits of the seat was starting to become a problem. Worse still was the realisation that eventually she'd need a bathroom break, and she wasn't entirely sure demons even _had_ toilets.

The demon faltered, turning back to the one-way mirror as though hoping to see beyond it and get some advice on how to proceed. It was almost adorable, really. Hermione took the opportunity to grab her coffee and take a mouthful, focusing her attention on the mirror and offering the demons behind it the smile that made _him_ wet himself in fear. Unlike the demon, she waved towards the glass mockingly. She could see the line of demons whenever the door was opened, and had the sneaking suspicion Hastur was still there, hidden from view and watching everything. ‘Hey Hastur, you coming back for another chat soon?’ The demon’s unease grew. Hermione’s smile widened.

‘It’s okay, you know. I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t have to look like I’m about to shove a broom up your ass or whatever the hell that facial expression is meant to convey. You’re here to talk. So let’s talk, shall we?’ The demon nodded its head, slowly like a child who knows its in trouble but not quite sure how to talk their way out of it. It was hard to keep her voice low, kind, and polite, if only because the urge to laugh hadn’t stopped since Hastur first started his speech. She could almost hear Pepper’s annoyed voice in her mind, reminding her that everyone always underestimates girls, always thinks they’re silly, vapid, emotional things, and using that innocent act is the quickest path to success.

Pepper said that a lot. Especially before they pulled a prank. And damned if she didn’t have a point. Though between them they made infinitely more trouble than Harry and Adam, the girls had only been given detention once, with no calls home at all. Adults weren’t what she’d call _smart_. Obviously, she didn't count her fathers as adults, as they clearly weren't stupid. So she categorised them as Angel and Demon respectively, and assumed the rest of their kinds were just as intelligent. She loved her Dad. He’d saved her, he protected her. He loved her. And she’d believed, clearly foolishly, that all demons were as smart and capable as Crowley, even if they were nowhere near as nice.

Holy shit, had she been wrong. Demons were adults with silly clothes and the occasional bit of wildlife on their heads. And maybe that would have been intimidating (although, really, it's hard to be intimidated by someone wearing a toad as a hat), but Hermione Crowley had been telling people, even adults, that they were stupid since well before Crowley had sauntered into her life. It was fun, and she was very, _very_ good at it. 

This? This was getting boring, though. There was no challenge in terrorising these demons. It was just... sad. The Dukes, at least, had been challenging. She'd had to work to get them to run away. The rest were just cannon fodder. She felt rather bad for them, if she were being honest. She'd expected a few lesser demons before Hastur gave up, and yet, he just kept sending them in. The idea of going through the motions an infinite number of times was frankly exhausting. She wanted out, and until whatever boss fight coming was arranged, she would be stuck terrorising demons far weaker than herself. 

So, fuck it. Time for phase two.

Forcing her expression into the kindest she could muster, Hermione smiled. ‘I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help you. To _save_ you.’

The demon gaped, mouth hanging open in surprise (they had a bit of spinach caught between their teeth), eyes wider than they had right to be outside of an anime. ‘I can feel it, you know. I can feel that small, scared part of you screaming for help.’ The demon turned back to the door, shaking their head violently.

‘I’m not scared of anything. I’m a demon.’ It would hold more credence, perhaps, if they hadn’t felt the need to shout it towards the other demons, rather than saying it to her.

‘It’s okay to be scared, you know. They’re scared, too. Even Hastur.’ Her grin turned wolfish, but given the demon was still staring at the door, it went unnoticed. ‘I think _especially_ Hastur. You know he was the first to talk to me? He couldn’t get any information out of me. If Dukes of Hell can’t do it, how is it fair to expect you to?’ The demon turned to face her, expression reeling wildly between emotions so quickly Hermione had no idea what they were feeling, let alone how to exploit it. But it wasn't about this demon. Not really. It was about Hastur hiding in the next room, and putting on enough of a show to have him good and worried. ‘You deserve better from your leaders, you know. You deserve someone who’ll care about you, who’ll give you jobs because they know you’ll succeed, not so they can sit in front of that stupid mirror and watch you fail. You deserve a real leader.’

Grinning, she slid her sunglasses slowly down her nose, folding them neatly and savouring the demon’s gasp at the golden, serpentine eyes revealed.

‘You deserve me.’

She could hear the chaos in the observation room, screams of rage (Hastur) and terror (everyone else, she guessed), and the sounds of a number of demons throwing themselves out of the room and as far away as possible. It was her new favourite sound.

‘Let me help you,’ she smiled. The demon stepped forward, more entranced than aggressive, and then Hastur was there, bodily removing the demon and slamming the door behind him as they fled.

Hermione laughed.


	7. Leadership is knowing when to admit defeat, and when to blame Hastur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have... escalated. 
> 
> Beelzebub has concerns.

Beelzebub, if you took their expression as an accurate portrayal of mood, was having a terrible day. With demons, and especially demons who hold the position of Lord of Hell and Unrighteous Hand of Satan, trusting facial expressions is a rather terrible idea, the sort of idea you should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself for even considering in the first place.

_Demons lie_. They are in fact incredibly good at it, and even with the propensity for liesmithing amongst Hell's citizenry, the only one who had ever bested Beelzebub in the art form was Satan himself. So while the Lord of Hell was hardly about to roll about the floor giggling, they weren’t particularly bothered by the unexpected turn of events, either.

Beelzebub, after all, was a leader. And an effective leader saw the learning potential in moments of failure (this was one of the very few useful things Crowley's gaggle of haphazardly trained 'psychological consultants' had ever uttered, and Beelzebub assumed they'd heard it from someone rather more qualified than themselves, probably at a pub trivia night). At the absolute minimum, this rather epic clusterfuck was a fantastic opportunity to evaluate the weaknesses in demon methodology. At this rate, there would be more than enough ideas for the weekly training sessions that they could bump them up to three times a week and still keep the lesser demons occupied until the next crack at Armageddon (due in 1,000 years). For perhaps the first time since the failed apocalypse, Beelzebub was glad that the Antichrist has refused. If the demons couldn’t even manage against a mortal child, how would they have fared against highly trained, powerful angels?

There would need to be a rather brutal change in training procedures. And the applied use of cunning to make sure Satan didn’t blame _them_ for the absolute failure of the legion’s training. Focusing on the Duke’s lack of reporting should hopefully be enough, and maybe even create an opportunity for a few changes in management. They made a mental note to discuss the issue with Satan at the next taco night, and to make Hastur write out a completely unnecessary report documenting each demon’s failures. With an overall summary, of course, because while they would gleefully make him write thousands of pages, there was no way in Hell Beelzebub was actually going to bother reading them.

Hastur stood at their side, head bowed and unusually silent, his anxiety and dread an almost tangible presence between them. His pasty, gloved hands, normally still except for the occasional theatrical gesture, were in constant and subtle motion. Not enough to be obvious to the few demons who hadn’t run at the sight of a simple glamour charm, of course. But every smoothing of clothing, or brush of thumb against fingers made it abundantly clear to Beelzebub that the Duke was struggling to maintain composure in the face of a rather epic defeat. It was a boon, of course. Duke Hastur was rather uppity, prone to backstabbing, power grabbing, and murdering the lesser demons. In and of itself, this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, nor particularly unusual. Beelzebub killed them regularly for an extensive range of crimes, including unappreciated fashion choices, being a vague or general nuisance, breathing too loudly in the presence of the Lord of Hell, and getting grubby hand prints on a magazine Beelzebub hadn't even gotten to read yet. Hastur's habit of killing the smarter ones, however, was clearly causing issue. As such, seeing him put firmly in place by a slip of a mortal girl was possibly the best way to spend a day.

The girl herself was spectacular. Utterly mortal, even with the ability to wield magic so effortlessly, but spectacular none the less. It was no wonder Crowley was fond of her. Turned towards evil, instead of mischief, Hell would be guaranteed victory.

Over a hundred demons had been sent in to break the child. She had broken all of them, physically and psychologically, without seeming to even be trying. In fact, she looked rather bored. Her reputation had grown enough that the younger demons couldn’t get a word in before they were conquered by their own fear. The human hadn’t needed to do, or say, a thing. The glamouring of her eyes to mirror Crowley’s was pure, indulgent artistry, and yet it had fully trained demons shrieking and running away like mortals trying to avoid the rack!

It was beautiful, in a horrifying, embarrassing sort of a way.

A wiser Duke than Hastur would have stopped the madness after the first five losses, rather than sending more in and hoping for the best. Now, regardless of any other consequences, it was clear they’d need to devote time and energy to conquering a sudden fear of humans within the demonic population. The thought of explaining _that_ to Satan was hardly pleasant, and maintaining their status of Lord of Hell was looking somewhat unlikely. _Just blame Hastur. _

‘You are all dismissed.’ The lesser demons bowed respectfully, and ran the fuck away. Beelzebub could hardly blame them. ‘Not you, Hastur. You can send in one of those mortals you had talking to the Dukes.’ Hastur nodded, stepping from the room to grab the nearest mortal and throw them into the interrogation room. The unexpectedly relocated human looked around in confusion before noticing the child, its mouth falling open in surprise. For her part, the child sized the mortal up and proceeded to ignore him. No matter what the human tried, the girl refused to acknowledge them.

The girl was smart. Too smart to continue wasting time on trivialities. There was nothing for it. Beelzebub would need to talk to her. Buzzing in irritation, Beelzebub muttered a frustrated ‘remove the human and leave’ to Hastur, watching him rush to obey with a look of relief far removed from his typical sadistic sneering. Rolling their eyes, Beelzebub warded the room heavily, ensuring no demons (and especially no curious Dukes) could see or hear what would happen next.

Only then did they walk in to the interrogation room.


	8. A meeting of snarks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Beelzebub meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There's a flippant comment about Hermione's life before Crowley made in this chapter.

The first thing Hermione noticed, of course, was the hat. At least, she hoped it was a hat, though the grumpy buzzing emanating from the top of the demon’s head was more than a little concerning. She tried very, very hard (harder than she’d tried not to prank the milkman or not to curse that idiot old man from Neighbourhood Watch so he’d lose his voice for a week) not to think about how horrible it would feel to have that low drone reverberating above your brain all the time, or whether the fly was attached or whether there was some sort of oozing as a result of a gigantic bug head sitting sentient on your eternally flattened hairstyle. Flies circled the demon’s head, and like Hastur, the demon radiated otherness in a way Crowley, even with serpent eyes, never managed.

Unlike Hastur, though, this demon wasn’t yelling. If you believed their facial expression, the demon wasn’t even angry or frustrated, merely the sort of calm that seemed utterly out of place in a realm with signs reminding people not to lick the walls. Surrounded by such woeful company, it seemed a safe bet that the demon was rarely as calm as it pretended to be- and Hermione wasn’t fool enough to believe that someone in a position of authority would be unbothered by the chaos she’d inflicted upon their… workplace? Kingdom? _ Home? _

It’s face was clean, too clean to be natural, so clean and pale and smooth it looked ridiculous after the boils and scabs and dried blood (and in one case, tentacles) everyone else wore proudly in Hell. _ A glamour? Why? _Power radiated from the being before her, and Hermione smiled beatifically. 'Finally, someone interesting.' The demon's eyebrow rose oh so slightly, lips quirking upwards infinitesimally. Their amusement was almost perfectly hidden, and Hermione had the sudden and ridiculous need to see this demon laughing.

'Oh, I like you. I'm Hermione.'

'Beelzebub.' Hermione straightened in her seat, leaning forward excitedly. The demon’s eyebrow rose ever so slightly higher in response. 

'Satan's second in command, Lord of Hell, & if Crowley is right - and he usually is about these kinds of things- the smartest of the demons.' Crowley, in fact, had said nothing of the sort, as he avoided any talk of Hell around "impressionable minds", but flattery had a habit of moving awkward conversations along, and Hermione really, really wanted the demon to keep talking. Partly because they were interesting. Partly because it seemed like the thing to do when you were kidnapped and brought to Hell, but mostly because Hermione couldn’t get a read on just how much trouble she was in, and curiosity was never a good thing where Hermione Crowley was concerned. 

Until Crowley had wandered into her life, she had been surrounded by people who mistook her for a walking, talking punching bag, and she’d borrowed enough psychology books from Aziraphale’s library to understand that her formative years had shaped her into someone who checked for threats constantly, honing her focus in such a way lesser minds would say she had a sixth sense for reading people’s intentions. She’d gotten used to sensing and responding to threats, and she was very, _very_ good at it- she’d had to be. But she couldn’t sense anything threatening from Hell’s Second in Command. As she’d shopped with her father, she’d felt flickers of unease, and there had been an ache of warning that rose and fell depending upon which demon was in the room with her (a dull throb for Hastur, barely there like a mostly healed mosquito bite for the majority, a painful screaming roar with the arrival of the shapeshifting Cara), but face to face with the second most powerful being in Hell felt like… nothing. No threats, no affection. Just empty psychological air space. It made no sense, and Hermione hated when important things didn’t make sense. 

Still, she felt it was probably a bad idea to tell the second most powerful being in Hell that they were a nice, relaxing change from the tidal wave of idiocy she’d been riding all afternoon. It seemed a little too confrontational for a chat that could still end in torture. 

‘I would have assumed Crowley would warn you to fear the Lord of Hell, not appreciate their intellect.’

‘I’ve never been good at being scared, sorry.’ 

*

The moment Beelzebub entered the room, they were distracted by the mortal. It wasn’t the thrum of power radiating off of the child, though in time they would be formidable, and judging by her efforts already, utterly, utterly ruthless. No, power and skill at wielding it was hardly unique to the child, even if it was unusual to see one so young able to weave magic so effortlessly. The distraction was the sort Beelzebub doubted the others - not even the Dukes- had noticed. Beneath the bravado, the power, the captivating ability to wage war like she was born knowing how to was something infinitely more delicious: darkness. This was a child who had taken steps down a pathway few children ever knew existed, let alone traversed. And oh, but that was a story Beelzebub wanted to hear. 

That particular battle wound was new. New enough that it likely happened around the angel and demon, and demon though he might be, it was unlikely Crowley would have been alright with the sort of malice required to tarnish a soul in such a way. But despite the tarnish that spoke of a gift for wickedness, the child was honest (that she was brutally so was the smallest of mercies). Sitting before the Lord of Hell, she genuinely wasn’t scared. 

Beelzebub tried not to be insulted. 

Conjuring a chair absently (the girl’s eyes widened, and Beelzebub could almost hear the questions the child wanted to ask bouncing between them like hellhound pups), they settled in for what looked to be a long conversation. ‘Clearly, you’ve spent your time learning how to make trouble instead.’

The child shrugged, smiling like she was flattered to have had her ability to bring demons to tears noticed and acknowledged. Beelzebub grit their teeth, forcing their amusement aside ruthlessly. ‘It’s a useful skill to have.’

‘You broke my demons.’ Given they'd all had it coming, it was difficult to sound suitably stern about it.

The girl bared her teeth in parody of a smile, her body language screaming an odd blend of amusement and rebellion. ‘Not overly competent demons, though, were they? I mean, if _I_ can break them, do they really deserve the title of ‘demon’?’ The answer was a resounding no, but she didn’t need to know that. 

‘It’ll do them all good to get the smugness knocked out of them, so really, I'm just helping get them better at their work. I'm _helping _you! I mean, you had demons coming in calling themselves destroyers of worlds- they’d never destroyed a single one! Really, who's going to be intimidated by that kind of bluster? If it doesn't work on a human kid, how effective will their efforts be against _angels_? I highly doubt giving the Heavenly Host the giggles will help your side win the war. Besides, Hastur kidnapped me, which I’m pretty sure violates that truce you seem to have with Crowley and Aziraphale. If Hastur didn’t want me to terrorise the demons, he shouldn’t have brought me here and thrown me in a room with them.’

They hadn’t meant to smile at that. They didn’t smile, ever, aside from the murderous sort that demons had to be able to use as necessary to prove their bastardry. There had not been a genuine smile on Beelzebub's face since The Fall. They were stoic and demanding and terrifying, and a genuine emotion around demons was like throwing on a costume of fish guts and toddling in for a swim in a shark tank. Beelzebub did not smile. Ever. They certainly didn’t smile at a brash slip of a girl for speaking in a way that would see demons thrown to the hellhounds for attempting. Except that they accidentally _did_ smile, and now the irritating brat was smiling like it was the best thing that had ever happened to them. 

Hoping to salvage the situation, Beelzebub snatched the girl’s coffee, took a large gulp, and savoured Hermione's ‘hey’ of annoyance. But judging from the girl’s fond smile, the rouse failed spectacularly. 


	9. Girl talk, if one party is neither a girl nor particularly chatty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because you just know they'd be besties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been forever. Blah, blah, excuses, blah- the story is way more interesting than me talking about work, I swear. Enjoy!

'Crowley is important to you.' Hermione's expression didn't falter, though the hand reaching for her coffee shook so slightly it would be painfully easy to miss. She didn't even wipe the straw before drinking, and Beelzebub felt a surge of regret for not spitting in the drink when they had the chance. 

'What on earth, or I suppose in this case _what in the Hell _makes you think so?'

Beelzebub leaned back in their chair, far enough back that gravity should have seen them tangled on the floor. Their expression was curious as they studied Hermione intently. ‘You love Crowley, the reek of it is obvious to anyone paying attention. But were that not enough, you’ve done nothing to hide the fact. Surrounded by enemies, you wear his eyes as a badge of honour. You dress as he does, you act as he does. If I did not know for a fact you are mortal, and he painfully, ridiculously in love with his angel, I would assume you’re his get.'

Hermione shrugged. 'Blood hardly matters. He is my father in every way that matters.' There was no hesitancy in the declaration, simply the cold stating of fact, and Beelzebub wondered what it would be like to raise a creature so powerful, to be adored so utterly by something with the ability to survive without them.

‘A father that let you be taken by Hell.’

‘A father who let his guard down momentarily. You’re a fool if you think he won’t take vengeance for Hastur's fuck up.’

The demon snorted indelicately, gesturing to the door and the barely there sounds of misery and suffering beyond. ‘What could he possibly do at this point? You here has been vengeance enough. It’ll take years to get the demons back to functional.’ Another contortion, the chair precariously balanced, and the girl’s eyes widened in amazement, the conversation apparently forgotten.

‘How do you do that?’

‘Magic.’ The girl huffed at the clear sarcasm, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes dramatically.

‘Will you teach me?'

‘You already have a perfectly adequate tutor in the arcane, clearly. What use have you for another?’ The girl’s expression shifted to pure mischief, and Beelzebub felt a sudden jolt of affection for the little hellion. Affection was not a familiar sensation to the demon, not since the Fall, and the stripping away of all that was good and kind and purposeful that burned more wickedly than the most malicious of hellfire. The feeling was odd, but not wholly unwelcome. _Was this why Crowley turned?_

For her part, the mortal adopted a mocking, overly pretentious lilt for her reply. ‘Dad and Anathema teach me the proper skills, the protective and the defensive. They don’t teach me the fun stuff. Come on, you know you want to. Just imagine it- me, terrorising the mortals out of sheer boredom, too busy to summon Sminich the Destroyer for that movie marathon they’re probably having nightmares about. You’d be doing Hell a favour, really.’

Beelzebub hadn’t meant to laugh, the same way they hadn’t meant to smile or forget to torture the little shit into compliance, but it felt oddly freeing to have an actual emotion without dressing it up with some kind of evil monologue to impress the lesser demons. (Still, they made a mental note to be particularly wicked for the next month to make up for it.)

The girl was a quick study, picking up every trick and wickedness Beelzebub could teach her almost effortlessly. It was hard not to compare her to the demons, years wasted training them in even the simplest of magics. There was no grace, no artistry in the efforts of their underlings, and yet, here was a mortal, still aeons away from true wickedness, wielding dark magics like she was born to do so and making the eternal forces of darkness look like rank amateurs.

The idea of letting the little hellion return to Crowley and the angel, to return to the righteous path when she was overflowing with potential was increasingly difficult to stomach.

Beelzebub had some thinking to do.

Thinking, of course, was rather difficult with an inquisitive mortal asking questions more quickly than even a supernatural being could contend with.

Oddly, Beelzebub didn’t mind in the least.

*

When Beelzebub thought she wasn’t paying attention, their gaze softened. Not a lot, this wasn't some d grade rom-com, probably not even enough for the other demons to even notice something had changed. But Hermione Crowley wasn’t an idiot, thank you very much, and she knew what it looked like when someone was trying (failing) to hide their emotions. Even if she hadn't spent years seeing it reflected in the mirror each morning, her new parents were more than enough to reaffirm the lesson. A tiny, understandably nervous part of her wondered if the Lord of Hell was lonely. 

Sitting, sharing a never-empty coffee, talking shit and sharing methods for terrorising those around them, it felt a lot like friendship. Not that Hermione would say that out loud, _ever_. Beelzebub would probably pitch a fit, and Crowley? Yeah, that wasn’t a conversation she ever needed to have with her father. The melodrama would be never ending. And Aziraphale would probably try and pray for her or something.

No, definitely not an option. Dragging her mind away from what could have been (or could be, if she was devious enough to convince the Lord of Hell to be her new bestie, somehow hide it from her angelic and demonic parents _and_ convince Pepper not to try and exorcise the competition- confident though she may be, even Hermione had doubts she could pull _that_ off), she tried to find a change in topic before Beelzebub began grumbling about hyperactive mortals on coffee highs. _Again_. The fly buzzed in what sounded suspiciously like annoyance, a clear warning that another minor rant was imminent.

‘Can I ask a personal question?’ Beelzebub quirked an eyebrow as though barely withholding the urge to seem interested in where Hermione’s train of thought was currently travelling. It was almost cute watching them feign disinterest, like watching her father trying to pretend he wasn't all heart-eyed over Zira. Yet another thing Hermione would need to never say to anyone ever.

‘Is it, like, a hat? A weird, fly-head hat? I mean, the Dukes look like they’ve broken into a petting zoo white drunk, but the fly is… different.’ 

‘It is the first fly, ceremonially beheaded, its sentience returned and the enlarged head placed as a crown by Satan himself to commemorate my works of evil. Every buzz is a celebration of my demonic prowess.’ Behind the puffed out chest and posturing, the beaming smile looked more like a frustrated baring of teeth. So the demon didn't like it, either. _Excellent._

Hermione snorted in amusement. ‘Sounds like trolling, though? Like, wouldn’t a better celebration be _not _having a giant bug buzzing right near your ears for the rest of eternity and surrounding you with smaller, irritating versions? I’m pretty sure that’s a punishment, not a reward… like, fuck sake, Satan, just get your minion a Starbucks card and be done. How do you even hear anything with all that buzzing?’

Beelzebub was silent, so silent and for so long that Hermione wondered if she’d broken the demon, or accidentally frozen them in place with her magic. But then the demon’s face contorted into what was possibly rage (or stomach upset. There was a noticeable ‘going to splatter my lunch on the wall’ vibe at play), their hands curling into fists as a droning, inhuman voice shriek-buzzed ‘that smarmy fucker!’

Not laughing was very, very painful. 


	10. Enemy Territory (Aka Off To Hell We Go)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tadfield Hellraiders League has arrived.

It was awkward to have everyone touching Crowley while they descended, which was rather the point of the defensive magic in place, really. You can’t smuggle in an army of thousands if they’ve all gotta be clutching on, can you? Even the stupidest of demons would notice you coming and going, not to mention the crowd of enemies just standing about, fidgeting and making awkward small talk while checking their weapons and waiting to attack. It was uncomfortable enough with all the hands grabbing onto his arms, and with Pepper clinging to his back like a baby koala, a clearly modified paint ball gun (he’d been too afraid to ask where she’d gotten it, or what it now fired, let alone why she’d had it and her beloved truncheon in her schoolbag) balanced on his head for ease of shooting, it was impossible to look suitably menacing upon his arrival. 

In 1839, a koala was brought to England, somehow managing to survive the long, cramped trip to be immediately rewarded by being thrown into a gift wrapped cage and handed to an eighteen year old nobleman as a rather unfortunate birthday present. Crowley had been there, of course, but contrary to Hell’s popular belief, had nothing to do with dragging the poor beast out of its home for a lark (he did, however, convince Aziraphale to return it as soon as possible). They had polished off an obscene percentage of the parental wine cellar in their evening, when one of the more idiotic of the group had suggested taking some photos of the new group mascot. Given it was a room full of drunken 18 year old boys, it didn’t take long for someone to have the bright idea to hand the creature a gun. No one had expected the creature to hold it properly, after all, let alone that it could somehow, inexplicably, aim and fire the blessed thing. Crowley managed to turn snake and hide. The humans were rather less able to dodge. As the humans, quite understandably, assumed the koala to be the sole survivor of the tragedy, rather than its cause, a manhunt occurred that became a rather farcical vengeance quest that became burning down three churches, two governmental buildings, and a rather imaginative (if doomed to failure) attempt to burn down the Thames. Through it all, the koala watched the chaos unfold, creepy brown eyes seemingly lit with unholy glee. 

Having never met a koala before, the denizens of Hell assumed some form of corruption or demonic interference taking place. Truthfully, however, a brief glimpse at the creature’s eyes told Crowley more than he’d ever wanted to know about the inherent rage of fuzzy, adorable marsupials and their ability to make do with the weapons on hand. He’d never been game to visit Australia after that. 

Crowley wondered whether he would look a little more intimidating if he gave Pepper a pair of koala ears, or whether the story had faded from memory enough that the gesture would be lost. He didn’t want to look silly, after all. Hell had never taken him seriously. Every effort was overlooked, his knowledge sneered at while Hastur and his ilk were praised for their mediocrity. Oooh, I tempted a Priest! Like that’s bloody hard- put any human in a position of power and within a year they’re one substandard coffee away from villainy. Let ‘em think they’ve got control over the afterlives of their peers, and the corruption takes far, far less time and energy. Tempting a Priest is about as difficult as taking candy from a sleeping baby! They’d always mocked his efforts, and he’d always let them, even when he knew his work was provably useful to their cause. He didn’t really want to be a demon, after all, so fighting to be taken seriously as one seemed rather counterproductive. So even when the Duke’s efforts were commended and his were ignored (and especially when the Duke’s could have only succeeded because of his hard work), he kept his opinions firmly to himself. 

He’d thought not rocking the proverbial boat was the best choice in a rather bad bunch, but clearly not. After all, they’d taken Hermione. They’d stolen his child because they believed there wouldn’t be consequences, that the unappreciated little ginger demon would just… what? Go home and cry? Come to Hell and beg? 

They believed he wouldn’t dare rock the boat.

Idiots. He’d been nice for far too long, clearly,and it had gotten him nowhere (at least, in terms of dealing with Hell. More generally, his efforts had earned him quite a lot, especially in Tadfield). Perhaps a newer, angrier approach was required. After all, unlike most demons, Crowley could swim. Sinking the boat entirely wouldn’t bother him anywhere near as much as it would bother the rest. 

The second the defensive magic faded, Crowley shook off the holds of his makeshift family, and strode forward, his best and most murderous demonic expression in place as he tried and failed to ignore the way the gun’s weight was ruining his meticulously styled hair. His hair didn’t matter. His menacing aura, however, did.

He needn’t have worried about his aura or his hairstyle. 

A few steps into the normally bustling walkway showed a bunch of hysterically sobbing demons, their wails a rather good start at calming his murderous rage. Bafflingly enough, there were humans running about, trying and failing to offer comfort, or at least stop some of the demons slamming their own heads against the wall as though unaware they were braining themselves against slime covered rocks. Behind him, he could hear his family hesitantly following him into the proverbial fray, before falling utterly silent behind him. 

‘Huh. Did not expect that,’ he muttered, eyeing the scene warily.

For her part, Pepper snorted. ‘Told you so.’


	11. Fare thee well, Hell

There were a lot of oddities in the life of Hermione Crowley, and she was hardly oblivious to that fact. She had been rescued by a demon, adopted by said demon and his angelic husband along with a boy that, the second she had seen him, she had known she would die for. Her friendship circle included the actual Antichrist. She was magic, for Heav-Hell-_someone's _sake. It wasn't weirdness that bothered her these days, it was the idea of normalcy. 

Perhaps that's why talking to Beelzebub was so effortless?

Or maybe, just maybe, hanging out with a demon had skewed her perspective a little. 

Hermione had a pretty good sense of danger. She'd had to develop it pretty damned quick growing up, and even in the relative safety of Tadfield, it hadn't lessened. And though Beelzebub teased and snarked and made themselves sound like the biggest threat in the known universe, the internal warning system of one Hermione Jane Crowley didn't so much as buzz in apprehension. So when the demon asked about the tarnish upon her soul, Hermione didn't lie. Instead, she told the story, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, her voice a snarl as if daring the Lord of Hell themselves to tell her she was wrong. 

Said demon, for their part, huffed out a laugh, gaze veering dangerously close to fondness. 'And let me guess. The tree topper didn't take it well?' Hermione shook her head. 

'I doubt he'll ever fully trust me again, to be honest.' A human, or even Crowley, would have offered platitudes and reassurance, and there was something refreshing about Beelzebub's nod of agreement.

The demon paused, looking vaguely queasy, before speaking in a rush, as though the words were burning their way out of their mouth and the faster they were removed the less it would hurt. 'Angels are creatures of absolutes, even those considered utter failures by the Host. They're so focused on details they miss the big picture. He'll flail and complain and be obnoxious- it's the way of them- but eventually reason will sink its way into his fool skull. What of your father?'

'He understands, I think. Maybe.' She shrugged. 'I haven't really asked. It's bad enough being Zira's disappointment, I'm not sure I want to know if I'm Dad's as well.'

Another nauseous look, and Beelzebub swallowed, face contorted like they were trying to choke down something awful. 'Crowley is pragmatic. A terrible demon overall, but hardly an idiot. Your actions were in defence of countless others, he will see the good within the wickedness. There has been enough good hidden within his own wickedness that I doubt he could miss its mirror in you.' Hermione didn't know what possessed her to race around the table and wrap herself around the demon in the biggest hug she could remember ever giving someone who wasn't Crowley, Zira or Harry. For a moment, Beelzebub froze, but their their arms wrapped tentatively around her, their touch hot like standing too close to a fire. Even the fly atop their head seemed to buzz more gently, like it was trying to offer reassurance. Beelzebub smelled of smoke and ash, uncomfortable but not disgusting, and Hermione buried her head in the demon's chest, squeezing her eyes closed and trying to calm down. 

'Where the fuck is my daughter?!?' She tensed, her father's voice loud in the otherwise quiet of Hell. Hermione looked up to Beelzebub, feeling the demon release her from the hug and a warm, buzzing sense of power dancing across her face. 

Though she'd tried to hide her confusion, Beelzebub seemed to see it easily. 'No sense him making assumptions about your tears, hellion.' Hermione beamed, settling in to sit on the table as Beelzebub returned to their seat, resuming their conversation (well, a less 'teach me the dark arts' or 'talk about my tragic backstory' version of their conversation, really), both silently counting down the moment until -

Bang. 

The door slammed open, Hermione barely fast enough to turn and see it hurtling back towards Crowley's face. Crowley raised an eyebrow. The door seemed to pause, quivering slightly as though afraid before slowly shifting to rest against the wall. 'Mya!' Crowley was in motion in a heartbeat, Pepper flailing and struggling to hold her gun and not fall off as he moved. Hermione was back on her feet in an instant, running to meet him and feeling caught up in long, gangly arms as kisses rained down upon her forehead. 'Are you alright? Did they hurt you? What happened? I'm so sorry, I-'

'Dad, I'm fine! I promise.' She grinned at him in relief, gaze shifting to take in Pepper's enraged expression and the way the gun was inching towards Beelzebub. 'Once Beelzebub knew what was going on, they came in to keep me company and ensure no one tried anything.' It could maybe be true, but the important thing was that it was enough for Pepper to lower the gun. 

'You... what?' She'd never seen her father look so baffled, and not laughing was surprisingly difficult. She could hear Beelzebub's soft huff of amusement behind her. 

'Hastur brought me here, had all the demons try and interrogate me. When Beelzebub found out, they stopped it, and stayed with me while they set Hell to rights again. They said it'd be too dangerous to get me out of this room while they're so... unhinged.' Crowley was staring at Beelzebub warily, like he knew the story was at least partial bullshit but wasn't entirely sure which part to lob accusations at quite yet. 

'Hell did not sanction this attack, and Hastur will be suitably punished for his efforts.'

'Make him nurse the others back to health.' Hermione muttered coldly.

'I was thinking of making him lick up the blood and gore. Perhaps both...' Hermione laughed. 'You are, of course, all free to leave.'

'And when they come after her again?' Aziraphale's voice was a rumble of rage, so far removed from his normal joyous tone. It reminded Hermione painfully of snow and shouting and disappointment, and she snuggled into Crowley a little more, biting her lip and struggling not to cry.

When Beelzebub responded, there was a menace to their tone that hadn't been there before. 'Look around, you incompetent twat. She has destroyed Hell. Do you think any would be fool enough to try again?' Their focus returned to Crowley, and the cruel tone faded to formality. 'Hell did not wish for this confrontation, Crowley, and we have little interest in maintaining a war with you over the idiocy of one Duke. The demons will not seek her out again, of this you can be certain.' Crowley stared at Beelzebub, long past the point of impoliteness, the Lord of Hell staring back as though an impromptu staring match was the most natural thing in the world.

'Yeah, yeah. Right, let's go home you lot.' Hermione shot Crowley an unimpressed look before rolling her eyes, letting him drag her from the room without a backwards glance. 

No one noticed the soft thrum of magic in her wake, or the piece of paper that fluttered onto the desk, 'thank you' written neatly in pitch black ink. 

Only Hermione noticed the new addition to her phone's contacts. 


	12. Epilogue

Beelzebub gave a cautious glance around the throne room, checking for spies or strays before allowing themselves a small, cold smile. It wasn’t that what they were doing was wrong, per say (and if it was, all the better), moreso that they didn’t want anyone stumbling onto their most prized possession. Few demons knew of their Lord’s phone, and thankfully fewer still knew how to unlock the thing, making it one of the most secure connections to the outside world available. Without Crowley around to get bored or curious, there was noone capable of navigating the device enough to stumble onto any of the secrets hidden within, and Beelzebub would prefer it stay that way. Scrolling through their phone’s contacts idly, the demon pulled faces at the more repugnant contacts until the unpleasant, grinning face of the Archangel Gabriel came into view. Huffing a rather impressively long-suffering sigh, more for show than actual annoyance, they hit the call button. 

Three rings, just enough time for the demon to hope there wouldn’t be a response, and a message would suffice, and then a smugly delighted drawl rang out. ‘Bubsy, what’s with the call? I thought we were trying for subtlty here…’

Beelzebub growled at the nickname, but beyond a ‘My name is Beelzebub, you fool’, didn’t fight overly hard against it. The lack of a response caught the angel’s attention, just as Beelzebub had predicted. 

‘What’s going on?’

‘Does Heaven have a treaty with the traitor Aziraphale?’ Silence, the sort that dragged uncomfortably onward while the angel contemplated how much risk came with an honest answer. Beelzebub snatched up a magazine and began to idly read. When Gabriel had to contemplate, it was best to settle in for a long wait. Forty minutes past, the silence broken only by the soft swish of turning pages, and Beelzebub wondered, not for the first time, how someone like Gabriel made it to the top of the celestial food chain. 

‘We do not.’

‘Hell, unfortunately, does.’ The beauty of being a demon was in not feeling even the slightest pang of guilt over lying. Beelzebub didn’t cross their fingers, or offer silent apology, simply fought to keep their smile from their voice. 

‘You brokered a treaty with Crowley?’

‘Of course not! One of the Dukes overstepped, but it means the information I hold is meaningless to us unless I want the unwashed masses to rebel. I thought, clearly foolishly, that you might want to know. Nevermind, I’ll leave you to i-’

‘Now now, Beelzebub, let’s not be too hasty there. We’re all on the same side, right?’ Wrong, and they both knew it. ‘Tell me what you know.’

‘And what will I get for this information?’

‘I know you’re making a play for Amsterdam. I’ll keep our people out of there for sixty years, give you a head start.’

‘Done. The traitors have adopted a mortal child. From all accounts, it is a weak, idiotic mortal, and they are attached enough to fall into line should its wellbeing be compromised.’ Gabriel’s laughter was colder, more cruel, than the majority of demons could manage on their most feral, horrifying days. It was one of many reasons Beelzebub enjoyed the Angel’s company.

'Oh, this is going to be fun.' On this, apparently, they agreed. It wasn’t that Beelzebub disliked the girl, on the contrary, they rather liked her capacity for evil and mischief. It was that the idea of the child leaving Heaven in the state Hell had been reduced to was far too funny to pass up. 

They couldn't wait to see the carnage. 

**Author's Note:**

> For those asking for a chronological order, it runs as follows: 
> 
> In Which A Family Is Created Through Arguable Theft  
Thoughts From the Back of a Bentley  
Hiding In Plain Sight  
Interlude: Through the Looking Glass  
Her Father’s Eyes  
In Which You Probably Shouldn’t Say Those Kinds Of Things Around Children, Crowley  
The Demon Of Lost Causes  
Raising Hell  
Somebody to Love  
Interlude: A Walk Down Privet Drive and An Ominous Sense of Oncoming Doom


End file.
